Holdfast
by bartagnans
Summary: She'd have run had they not held fast to her, anchoring her to the world with the hope that she might again breathe freely.


_Another post-BotFA fic involving Bard and his children consoling Tauriel in her hour of grief. Please read, review and enjoy._

 _Disclaimer: I own nothing._

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 **HOLDFAST**

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From across the great expanse that was the mountain's tomb, Tauriel looked awfully dejected and it was an expression that both Bain and Sigrid recalled seeing upon their father's face following their mother's death. They agreed that perhaps that was the very reason they now watched Bard approach the she-elf, eager to offer his comfort. He knew how she felt and how painful the beating of her heart must be, causing her to wonder just why it kept pulsing without reason. She'd lost it on the cliffs of Ravenhill.

At the time of his wife's death, Bard had three reasons to breathe; to get out of bed each day and to find more behind his smile than grief.

Staring at Tauriel however, he didn't have to wonder what was beneath the weal smile she gave Tilda as the girl reached out and held her hand.

The hobbit, Bilbo was concluding his eulogy for the fallen when Tauriel became visibly apprehensive about what they might ask of her. She was unaccustomed in the way Dwarves mourned their dead and, quite frankly, she wasn't particularly familiar with death itself either. She was an elf - immortal and immune unless battle or grief was involved. The latter of which forced her to consider why she herself hadn't been taken by it. If only, she breathed.

She'd have ran then, out of Erebor and far from the Lonely Mountain, washing her hands clean had young Tilda not held fast to them. She gazed down at the mortal child and recalled just how scared she'd been during the dragon's attack. She and her elder sister had clung to her for protection and the faith they had in her to keep them safe. They'd done so despite having only known her for a few short hours. Perhaps the children of men were less wary than that of elves. In any case, the two girls had entrusted her with their lives and such faith could only be reciprocated in subduing herself to the comfort of Tilda and her father, both of whom seemed intent on remaining by her side until she'd said goodbye to Kili.

The dwarves had started to vacate the hall with both the hobbit and wizard in tow. Tauriel however, hadn't moved an inch and so neither had Bard.

She assumed that he was likely waiting for his youngest to let go at some point. When it was obvious she had no intention of doing so, Bard placed his hands on her shoulders and coaxed her toward her siblings. Reluctantly, Tilda released Tauriel's hand and rejoined her brother and sister by the stone stairwell. Tauriel expected Bard to bid her farewell and to leave. Instead, through the side of her gaze, she caught him ushering his children to leave. They seemed to do so without hesitation because Bard had turned to follow her line of sight once more.

They stood there in silence for the better part of an hour before Tauriel finally spoke up. "Is it always like this?"

"I'm sorry?" He asked, unsure what she meant.

"Death." She replied. "Is it always so... quiet; so still; so... insignificant to the changing of the seasons and yet so tremendously devastating to the beating of one's heart." It was hurting her, he could tell. Each breath was an effort and the thump that followed in her chest was a contradictory reminder that it felt useless.

Bard listened to her words and the depth of emotion within them. He didn't have the heart to tell her that it wasn't often so debilitating or as violently agonising. Sometimes it was gradual and entirely expected though not altogether less consequential. But Kili, along with his brother and uncle had died suddenly, violently and far too soon. Of course she was feeling death in every sense of the word and, on top of all that, she was an elf - a stranger to the very notion of death.

No. He hadn't the heart or the will to explain that her suffering was at a height so seldom reached. It was breaking at the sight of the light waning in her eyes.

He knew what she needed and in that moment, he found himself aware of his - desire - need to help her.

"Come, Tauriel." He finally allowed himself to say. "Let us do something about the quiet."

Following the funeral, the dwarves welcomed their neighbours into the mountain to commemorate the lives of the fallen line of Durin and to celebrate having won the battle. It was a merry gathering despite the heavy air of sorrow and Bard deemed it best for Tauriel's ears to be filled with music and cheer in an effort to distract her from silence of Kili's absence.

They sat nearest to Balin, the eldest of the company who was all too eager to share in stories of Thorin's relationship with his nephews.

Tilda had again found her way toward Tauriel. At one point, she climbed onto her lap, determined to give her some comfort in whatever way she could. In any other setting, Sigrid might've reprimanded her for overstepping the boundaries. Surely Tauriel was of no mind to accommodate a little nuisance that was her baby sister. She was soon proved wrong as Tilda settled back against Tauriel when the elf wound her arms around the girl's middle, supporting and almost cradling her. She was quite exhausted after having endured so much excitement in the past few days. Truth be told, so was Tauriel and she was of no mind to object to some freely given company.

With the little girl in her arms, and the rest of her family surrounding her, Tauriel felt the pain in her heart lessen slightly.

Bard had been correct. She was grateful for the company and the solace it brought but she couldn't quite quell that conspicuous tugging at her chest. Who were they to laugh and cheer and revel in the merriment while the dead, deserved Prince's lay below in their stone crypt? How could it be that these tales their kin told weren't filling the listeners with regret? Did no one else feel wrong to smile in the wake of their deaths? She felt terrible at having been privy to it.

Before she could sicken herself with loathing however… "Has she fallen asleep?" asked Bard, gesturing toward Tilda whose head collapsed against the elleth's shoulder.

Tauriel nodded slightly, careful not to wake the child.

Bard moved to take Tilda from the Elf's embrace but Tauriel objected. "I will take her. Show me to your quarters?"

Making an effort to conceal his surprise at her offer, he nodded and led the way. He could count the number of pleasantries he'd shared with his Elven neighbours on one hand and considering how often he frequented the shores of the Greenwood, that fact spared little hope for the kindness of wood elves.

Tauriel however, well… she wasn't anything at all like her kin. She was kind and selfless, sparing what measure of concern she could for those most elves wouldn't. She was curious and naive and determined. She was neither cold nor stoic. Rather, she felt deeply and perhaps, far too much.

He needn't dispute his assumption as he glanced across at his youngest child in her arms. Tilda, though half-asleep, clung to Tauriel with an intensity that could rival a child's love for their mother. Her small fingers wove their way into the Crimson strands over her shoulders.

His gaze might've lingered too long for Tauriel seem to notice but said nothing and made no attempt to shy away from his scrutiny. Instead, she maintained the silence as they trekked towards his makeshift home in the ruins of Dale.

Two cots had been laid out for his daughters and Tauriel placed Tilda on the one nearest the stone wall. With Tauriel seated on the edge of the hay-filled mattress, Bard kissed his daughter's forehead.

"I wish I had children of my own." Tauriel mused suddenly as she freed her hair from the girl's grasp, taking her hand for a moment longer. "Perhaps then this welcome distraction might last." Perhaps she could hold on a while longer.

"Perhaps it could." suggested Bard, urging Tauriel to query his statement with a furrow of her brow.

Bard thought for a moment that he may have pushed too far. Regardless, he felt compelled to offer. "While I'm of no mind to meddle in the deeds of another, I would like to offer you the chance to visit whenever you wish it." If her softened expression was any indication, she seemed partial to the idea. "I know Tilda would just love to see you again." He wouldn't tell her that he'd be of a like mind.

"And I her…" she replied, her eyes fixed upon Bard's. Maybe she would visit, or maybe she would postpone her departure all together.

"I know how you hurt, Tauriel... I've felt it." He tells her once they've reached the slightly collapsed balcony. "It will last a while yet..."

She inclines her head in regret but Bard was having none of that and reached out his hand to gently nudge her chin up to meet his gaze.

"But it will end. Someday." He promised. And she'd be able to think of Kili without that stabbing sensation in her gut; the beat her heart dares to miss. She'd remember his smile with one of her own.

For now, any smile she could manage would be accompanied with tears. A sight not much different from the moment Bard reached out to pull her towards him.

He held her as his daughter had done - with his fingers in her hair and his arms tight enough to trust. He would hold her until she felt ready to let go; to trust the beating of her own heart and to breathe freely with no inclination to stop.


End file.
